


everything as it is: infinite

by spale_vosver



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Autistic Jonah Magnus, Canon-Typical Worms (The Magnus Archives), Gender Dysphoria, Mild Medical Horror, This is a repost!, Trans Jonah Magnus, autistic author, this got way more introspective than i'd have liked, trans author
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-09
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:47:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25156468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spale_vosver/pseuds/spale_vosver
Summary: Let it never be said that Jonah Magnus is inconsiderate in his actions.
Comments: 9
Kudos: 28
Collections: Associated Articles Regarding One Jonah Magnus





	everything as it is: infinite

**Author's Note:**

> VERY IMPORTANT NOTE: This is a repost of a fic I posted earlier today. Another archive user reached out to me and informed me that, because of a certain authorial choice, my fic was unintentionally very offensive. Having recognized that, I took it down to rewrite the offending portions, and am now reposting it.
> 
> As before, this is a gift fic for the Jonah server. Thank you for being you, you glorious bastards. As in their fics, Jonah is trans, and Simon is referred to as Giovanni. Jonah being autistic is my own addition as an autistic man.

Jonah considers the Buried. He considers its closeness, tightness; Smirke has called it Too-Close-I-Cannot-Breathe, has called it Choke, has called it a litany of names that Jonah thinks do not do it justice. There is a comfort in the Choke, he thinks, a familiarity in something Too-Close, and, almost on cue, he trails a hand down his front, fingertips running over the modified corset he’s wearing. 

This, for instance, does Choke somewhat, especially if he is hasty and inconsiderate with the tightness of the lace. This, again, is Too-Close sometimes; he recalls a specific instance where, after a sudden growth spurt led to the device bruising a rib, he had to rush-commission a new one, and did not leave the house until it was delivered for the awfulness of what he supposes Smirke might call Too-Far-I-Breathe-Too-Much. 

Jonah considers the Buried. He considers how it might feel to wield that Too-Closeness, to crush and choke and cover. It certainly does help, he realizes with no small amount of amusement, that the small spaces he’s fond of retiring to when the stimulus of the world gets to be too much would become almost a second home; the large, gloomy cellar he feared so as a child would cease to hold any of that power now that the underground was his friend. 

Now  _ that _ is an inviting prospect, that transfer of power. He does rather like that idea. How many other places would relinquish that power? The undercroft of the church down the road, for one--maybe he’d even get to finally explore it without his companion teasing him for the goose pimples sprouting down his neck and over his arms. Perhaps the-

A knock at the door.

“I’m dressing,” he says to whoever’s just knocked.

“God above,  _ still _ ?” Smirke’s baritone cuts through the relative silence with ease. “How long does it take? I assure you, you’re not  _ that _ handsome that you can just leave your guests waiting downstairs while you preen.”   
  
“I assure  _ you  _ that I  _ am _ that handsome, but I do also thank you for telling me. I’ll be down in just a moment.”   
  
Footsteps away from the door.

Jonah’s delicate fingers find the cravat that’s been lying limp around his neck, and finish tying it. He steals his own breath as he pulls a bit too tight, the fabric pressing into the base of his throat just a tad too firmly. He moves to redo the knot.

Jonah considers the Buried.

  
  


* * *

Jonah considers the Corruption. He considers its hold over revulsion and filth. The thought of it alone makes him shudder; he’s never been one for rot, or for bugs, and, in a macabre sort of way, that’s what fascinates him about it, a Power so great that it can gain traction in his  _ thoughts _ . Now that, he thinks, is delightful- no, that’s the wrong word. Barnabas Bennett is delightful. The Crawling Rot is not. It is…

“Hand me those scissors?”

Jonah nods, handing the pair of medical scissors to Fanshawe, who maintains his composure fully, despite being in the middle of dissecting a corpse. Even his curiosity is no match for his own squeamishness, and he flinches away as Fanshawe begins to cut through tissue. There is an immediate scent of flesh and formaldehyde, something he is decidedly  _ not  _ fond of. He dares another peek after a pointed “Eugh!” from Fanshawe, and nigh immediately regrets it. 

“Trichinosis,” the doctor explains, and jots down something unreadable in the notebook beside him. “Made its way into his muscle. Nasty, nasty buggers. Miracle this wasn’t what killed him.” As he peels back layers of tissue to reveal more of the parasites, Jonah has to hold back what he’s sure would be bile.    
  
Jonah stops considering the Corruption. 

  
  


* * *

Jonah considers the Dark. He considers its simplicity, its...familiarity. He’s always been a fan of dark spaces, and he has currently retired to one of the many closets in his estate to decompress. 

Much like the Buried, the Dark is a common comfort for him; for a man who loves attention as much as he does, he is far,  _ far _ too sensitive to external stimuli for his own good, and tonight was no exception. There had been so many conversations all at once, too many to focus on, not to mention his cravat had started to chafe, and-

Jonah bites his lip and rubs at his sideburns, willing himself back, back from the cliff he’d just been looking over. The linen closet he now sits in is quiet, separate. His eyes and ears and mind can rest and focus on the sheer blackness of it and nothing else. His eyelids flutter shut as he continues to rub the soft fuzz of his sideburns, and he sighs, long and contented. With the Dark, he could have been here far sooner than he was, could have made like Rayner and simply stepped into the shadows, away from everyone and everything and all of it. 

Jonah considers the Dark, and finds himself quite content.

* * *

Jonah considers the Desolation. He considers its warmth coupled with its destructive power, and thinks of how a soft flame can, in the blink of an eye, engulf all around it in an attempt to feed. He thinks of this as he stokes the fire idly, something he's been doing for a solid five minutes now. 

"Careful with that poker," he hears Mordechai warn from across the room. "Don't set the carpet on fire."

Jonah harrumphs and ignores him, continuing to prod at the fireplace.

"I'm serious. You remember what happened last time we trusted you with that thing."

He does remember; he'd gotten a bit careless, a bit distracted, and a sudden spark had caused quite a bit of carpet to light up. Mordechai had sacrificed one of his nicer coats to snuff out the flames, and Jonah had never heard the end of it. The memory does, however, pique his interest. The fire had spread so fast, so easily. What would it be like to have control over that, he wonders?

Jonah considers the Desolation.

  
  


* * *

Jonah does not consider the End. He does not like to think of death, so he doesn’t. It scares him, turns his gut in a way the Corruption  _ wishes _ it could, makes him fifteen and in his dormitory and reading a letter regarding the deaths of his parents again.

Jonah does not consider the End.  
  


* * *

Jonah considers the Flesh. He considers its ability to mould, to shape anew. He is, as he often does when he is in any state of undress, staring at his nude form. He trails his hands up his chest, and grasps at himself in a detached sort of way, grimacing at the feel of it in his hand.

The Flesh could change that, he thinks, he’s  _ sure _ , could let him simply remove what he does not want and keep what he does. Flesh is, after all, such a malleable thing, and the ability to do that would be…

He grimaces again. He hates looking at himself like this. He ought to stop, get properly dressed, stop dragging himself into the uncomfortableness he knows is sure to follow. 

He does it anyway. 

Jonah considers the Flesh.

* * *

  
  
Jonah does not consider the Hunt. He finds it boring, and tells Smirke so to his face for the satisfaction of the look of offense it earns him.

* * *

Jonah considers the Lonely. He considers its separateness, its detachment. He is reminded, briefly, of Lonelying with Mordechai when a sudden wave of people in a public area became too much for him. His breaths had become faster, less satisfying, and it had only taken one look of panic for his companion to get that he needed to  _ not be here right now _ . 

The Lonely had been peaceful, separate. 

Too peaceful.

Too separate.

He considers how isolated Mordechai is, how isolated he  _ has  _ to be. 

Jonah stops considering the Lonely.

* * *

Jonah considers the Slaughter, although he does not want to. He lies in bed, unable to sleep, and, against his will, occasions like these often lead to him thinking quite a bit. He thinks of hurting, of being hurt. He recalls punches, slaps, kicks. He recalls taunts, jeers. He recalls…

He is shaking. Trembling. Dangerously close to crying.

Jonah stops considering the Slaughter.

* * *

Jonah does not consider the Spiral. He prefers things explained simply and concisely, clear-cut. The world is already difficult to understand for him, and he has no desire to make it any more difficult than it already is. 

Jonah considers the Stranger. He considers its anonymity, its flexibility. The parchment of his birth certificate is old, yellowed, but the ink has cruelly refused to fade. He sees his name, his  _ old _ name, and he considers the Stranger.

How much paper would he have saved had he been able to simply snap his fingers and become Ambrose Jonah Magnus? How much time? How much torment? No need for copying documents down, letter by letter, staring at his-  _ that _ name, over and over and over again until he was sure he had them all. The Stranger would have been a blessing. And what a fitting name, too--the Stranger. A perfect name for the Patron of someone like him.

He cannot bear to look at the name anymore, and tears the paper in two, then into four, then into eight and sixteen and more and more until he loses count.

Jonah considers the Stranger

* * *

  
  


Jonah considers the Vast only briefly, before realizing that he would share Giovanni’s alignment should he choose it.

Jonah stops considering the Vast.

* * *

Jonah considers the Web only briefly as well. The idea of control and power is alluring, yes, but to control using one’s own power instead of tapping into another’s is far, far more satisfying.

Jonah stops considering the Web.

* * *

Jonah chooses the Eye. He chooses it for its Watching, its Knowing. Its powers are subdued compared to the others, of course, but what good is power without knowledge? The Eye lets him See, lets him Know; it cleanses the doors of perception, and allows him to see everything as it is:   
  
Infinite.

Jonah chooses the Eye.

**Author's Note:**

> Once again, a very large thank you to the user who informed me of the offensive elements of this fic's original incarnation, as well as to the Jonah server for inspiring me to write this.


End file.
